Dipso Facto
Michael De Rosa
Sometime around 6:00 am, I received a call
from my father. It was one of the hottest
days of that summer. I answered and he
spoke, “Will, get ready as quick as you can.
We’re going to your grandmother’s funeral.”
My grandmother had recently passed away in the small apartment that she lived in, which was connected to my parent’s home about an hour north of the city. They took care of her with the help of my aunt and uncle who lived a few miles from them. My father had decided that we were not going to the funeral due to the estranged family members who were to be in attendance. I don’t know what changed his mind in the early hours of that day. I had mourned my grandmother in my own way that week but I knew that it would mean a lot to my father if I were to be there for the funeral. My head was throbbing and I feared seeing my family. Sitting in bed, I was nauseated by the thought of my jerky subway ride to Grand Central Terminal.
I pulled myself out of my sweat-soaked bed and with my mouth parched from a hard night of drinking the evening before I reached for the half full glass of tepid water that sat next to me. It tasted like the smell of the old book that it sat on and looked as though an insect had started to decompose in it. I slowly moved myself through the empty apartment towards the bathroom, naked, holding my wrinkled pile of clothes in my weary arms. Thankfully the steam from my shower, which had recently replaced my faulty iron, pressed my suit beautifully. I combed my hair, brushed my teeth, put my suit on in the living room of my empty apartment, and grabbed my keys before heading out the door.
The sun was bright and there was nowhere to hide in the two-story Brooklyn neighborhood I lived in. I kept my head down, knowing that I still had four blocks until I met the subway entrance, bumping into two fire hydrants that were inconveniently placed in my path. I arrived to the subway station; no trains were to run for the remainder of the weekend. The unventilated shuttle bus would soon be there to relieve me. After a thirty-minute bus ride, I was on the subway heading towards midtown.
I made it right as the 08:05 train was pulling out of the station, leaving me with fifty-nine minutes until the next Hudson Line train left. I had enough time to sit down on the cold marble and relax. To sit and watch people running to catch their trains, shuffling through the line of tourists snapping photos of the astronomical ceiling, was something I did habitually in the main concourse. Terminals, bus stations, and airports all have those qualities that leave us contemplative. However, it’s rare in this day and age for one to be such a haunting site. The memories filled the halls of Grand Central, pleasantly packed in with that hustling crowd: The day trips to Little Italy with my father, the beer soaked teens swaying through the suits and ties to catch a train home, the innocent lovers getting away from the city, and the heartache of saying goodbye.
I watched as the sign for Track 32 switched on and read out my destination. Pulling myself up, I took out my phone and called my father. With a finger in my ear, I spoke, “I’m getting on the 09:05, Dad. I’ll see you soon.” Boarding the train, I put my phone back in my pocket, grabbed a seat, and waited. As the train moved me from my retrospection, I thought about my grandmother’s gentle smile.
from my father. It was one of the hottest
days of that summer. I answered and he
spoke, “Will, get ready as quick as you can.
We’re going to your grandmother’s funeral.”
My grandmother had recently passed away in the small apartment that she lived in, which was connected to my parent’s home about an hour north of the city. They took care of her with the help of my aunt and uncle who lived a few miles from them. My father had decided that we were not going to the funeral due to the estranged family members who were to be in attendance. I don’t know what changed his mind in the early hours of that day. I had mourned my grandmother in my own way that week but I knew that it would mean a lot to my father if I were to be there for the funeral. My head was throbbing and I feared seeing my family. Sitting in bed, I was nauseated by the thought of my jerky subway ride to Grand Central Terminal.
I pulled myself out of my sweat-soaked bed and with my mouth parched from a hard night of drinking the evening before I reached for the half full glass of tepid water that sat next to me. It tasted like the smell of the old book that it sat on and looked as though an insect had started to decompose in it. I slowly moved myself through the empty apartment towards the bathroom, naked, holding my wrinkled pile of clothes in my weary arms. Thankfully the steam from my shower, which had recently replaced my faulty iron, pressed my suit beautifully. I combed my hair, brushed my teeth, put my suit on in the living room of my empty apartment, and grabbed my keys before heading out the door.
The sun was bright and there was nowhere to hide in the two-story Brooklyn neighborhood I lived in. I kept my head down, knowing that I still had four blocks until I met the subway entrance, bumping into two fire hydrants that were inconveniently placed in my path. I arrived to the subway station; no trains were to run for the remainder of the weekend. The unventilated shuttle bus would soon be there to relieve me. After a thirty-minute bus ride, I was on the subway heading towards midtown.
I made it right as the 08:05 train was pulling out of the station, leaving me with fifty-nine minutes until the next Hudson Line train left. I had enough time to sit down on the cold marble and relax. To sit and watch people running to catch their trains, shuffling through the line of tourists snapping photos of the astronomical ceiling, was something I did habitually in the main concourse. Terminals, bus stations, and airports all have those qualities that leave us contemplative. However, it’s rare in this day and age for one to be such a haunting site. The memories filled the halls of Grand Central, pleasantly packed in with that hustling crowd: The day trips to Little Italy with my father, the beer soaked teens swaying through the suits and ties to catch a train home, the innocent lovers getting away from the city, and the heartache of saying goodbye.
I watched as the sign for Track 32 switched on and read out my destination. Pulling myself up, I took out my phone and called my father. With a finger in my ear, I spoke, “I’m getting on the 09:05, Dad. I’ll see you soon.” Boarding the train, I put my phone back in my pocket, grabbed a seat, and waited. As the train moved me from my retrospection, I thought about my grandmother’s gentle smile.
